


Control

by silentdescant



Series: Weekend PROMPTX [3]
Category: Pentatonix, Superfruit
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Space, Established Relationship, Fighter Pilots, M/M, Mild Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-13
Updated: 2018-03-13
Packaged: 2019-03-30 19:27:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13958394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silentdescant/pseuds/silentdescant
Summary: Scott is elbow-deep in a fighter engine, squinting to see the tiny sockets that are just out of reach of his work lamp, when he hears Kevin whistle for his attention.“Scotty, heads up,” he calls softly, voice carrying just loud enough for Scott to hear over the din of the hangar.Kevin didn’t give him much warning, though, because before Scott even has a chance to turn his head and wipe the grease off his hands, the Ambassador clears his throat from right behind him. Scott winces and keeps his arms deep inside the belly of the fighter.“Hey, Mitch,” he says brightly.





	Control

**Author's Note:**

> I'm a day late, but I've been thinking about a Battlestar Galactica type space AU for a while now. This is a little taste, just feeling out the characters, for the prompt "Spaceships". (No BSG knowledge necessary; I just used it as inspiration.)

Scott is elbow-deep in a fighter engine, squinting to see the tiny sockets that are just out of reach of his work lamp, when he hears Kevin whistle for his attention.

“Scotty, heads up,” he calls softly, voice carrying just loud enough for Scott to hear over the din of the hangar.

Kevin didn’t give him much warning, though, because before Scott even has a chance to turn his head and wipe the grease off his hands, the Ambassador clears his throat from right behind him. Scott winces and keeps his arms deep inside the belly of the fighter.

“Hey, Mitch,” he says brightly.

“Don’t give me that innocent bullshit,” Mitch snaps. “Why are you here?”

“The real question is…” Scott extricates himself and turns around with a sigh. Mitch is standing a few feet away with his arms crossed, looking entirely too clean and elegant for his surroundings. Scott wipes his hands on the dirty rag hanging from his belt. He won’t be able to get clean enough to touch Mitch, not without at least two showers. “Why are _you_ here? You’re not even wearing coveralls or boots, Mitch. It’s dangerous.”

“I can go wherever the fuck I want.”

Mitch doesn’t often pull rank like this, so Scott merely nods meekly. “Yeah, I know, but I don’t want you to get hurt. C’mon, let’s go to my office.”

“Your office? The one with the giant calendar on the wall? That office, you mean?”

Scott winces again, and he sees Kevin do the same. He’d give his left foot for the proximity alarm to go off right now, sending the squad out to battle. Alas, the PA system remains silent and Kevin shoots him a few increasingly urgent looks that clearly indicate Scott needs to apologize. As if he didn’t already know that.

“Things got away from me,” he says. “We need to get these repairs done ASAP before—” He stops short. Mitch knows what the dangers are of a fleet of fighters in varying stages of disrepair. Things are too dangerous right now. They need the whole squad in tip-top shape, ready for battle at a moment’s notice.

“You’re not a _mechanic_ , Scott,” Mitch replies. “We have people for this. Not _you_ , not _today_. Scott. _Scott_ , we had a deal.”

Scott heaves another sigh and heads toward his office, trusting Mitch to follow. They step through the briefing room and Scott waves his badge in front of his door.

“Scott—”

“Come in here, Mitch. I don’t want to have this conversation in public. Half the squad doesn’t respect me as it is. I don’t need them walking in on you yelling at me.”

“There’s no one here,” Mitch grumbles, but he follows Scott into the office and hits the button to close the door. “They respect you,” he says softly. “Everyone knows how important you are, me most of all. But you promised, Scotty. You promised we could have today.”

“Things got away from me—” he says again.

“You’re not just a pilot anymore, Scott,” Mitch says, emotion warming his tone. “You don’t have to be in charge of every little thing. You can let someone else fix the engine on your fighter.”

“But I know what the problem is—”

“So tell someone and they’ll fix it.”

“I can—”

“You can’t, Scott,” Mitch says. “This is the eighth time since you got promoted. Things get away from you because you won’t let anything go. It’s okay to delegate. It’s okay to trust other people to do their jobs. Scott, please, _please_ let people do their fucking jobs.”

Scott sighs and falls into his chair. It drifts, swiveling slowly until he’s facing the giant calendar. Today Is crossed off with a giant green X and Mitch’s name at the top. His eyes jump to the other green Xs in weeks past, all of which he’s ignored, all of which he’s had more important things to do. “I’m not dealing with this well,” he says miserably.

It’s not like he _wants_ to blow Mitch off. It’s not like he doesn’t miss the time they used to spend together before his promotion. He’s just so busy now, and every time one of these days sneaks up on him, there are too many things to get done. Too many incredibly important, life and death tasks that have to be done as quickly as possible. He’s the one in charge. He’s the one with responsibility. He’s the one who knows what to do, and he’s the one who can do it the fastest. He’s the one who can do it the best. He prides himself on being the _best_.

Mitch comes over to him and perches on his lap, takes Scott’s face in both of his hands. “You’re a control freak, baby. I know,” he says, though not unkindly. The anger has passed.

“I’m gonna get you dirty,” Scott mutters. His clothes are a mess. He can’t bear to lift his arms, rub his blackened hands all over Mitch’s expensive suit. “You shouldn’t touch me.”

“I don’t mind.”

“Yes, you do.”

“I know it’s hard for you to let go. I know it’s hard for you trust people. But you trust me, right?”

“Of course.”

“I’m trying to help you, Scotty. Will you let me?”

Scott nods. “I’m sorry.”

“Forget about everything else—” At Scott’s half-formed protest, he puts his finger to Scott’s lips. “Kevin can handle it. This is our day. Forget about everything but me. You need something to do, something to keep you occupied and distracted? Do it with _me_.”

“I know what you’re doing.”

Mitch rolls his eyes. “I’m not trying to be subtle, Scott. You want to take control, take control of _me_. I’ll follow your orders. You trust me to do that, you trust me to listen. Scott, I’m begging you.”

He’s not begging, he’s ordering, but maybe that’s why he’s so desperate now, after all these weeks. He’s had too many evenings where they’re both too tired to do more than kiss each other goodnight, or evenings where their schedules don’t overlap at all and they come back to their quarters to find the other already asleep. He’s strung out after long days of giving orders, holding his team to high standards, expecting excellence. Mitch is just as much of a perfectionist as Scott, but it manifests in entirely different ways. They cope with their stress like two sides of the same coin.

“I need this as much as you do,” Mitch whispers. “I need _you_.”

Scott seizes a handful of Mitch’s hair with one hand, lays the other firmly on the back of Mitch’s neck, and reels him in for a demanding kiss. Mitch melts for him, tension easing out of his body. He falls forward against Scott’s chest, relaxing into his arms, no longer holding himself so primly and carefully on Scott’s knee. Scott feels the worry for his task list drift from the forefront of his mind and he lets it go in favor of growling into their kiss, deepening it until Mitch moans for him.

He finally pulls Mitch back by his hair, exposing the long column of his throat. He doesn’t bite the pale skin there, though he wants to. He lets his hands settle around Mitch’s hips. There’s a long, dark smudge on Mitch’s jawline and his hair is sticking up at odd angles from the greasy residue on Scott’s fingers. Scott’s almost scared to look down at the state of his usually impeccably clean clothes.

“You’re right,” he says. “I’m sorry I blew it off again. We both need today.”

“Thank you.”

“Let me go shower this mess off. Meet me in our quarters. I want you cleaned up and ready and kneeling on the bed for me, waiting quietly. Understood?”

Mitch gives him a satisfied, almost smug grin and hops to his feet. He gives a cheeky salute. “Sir, yes, sir, Commander.”

Scott whips the dirty rag in his direction and misses. “Get out of here, Mr. Ambassador.”

 

 _fin_.


End file.
